


Pillow Talk

by ballantine



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/F, I mean, PWP without Porn, there's a little porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 09:23:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8157175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/ballantine
Summary: Eleanor and Max take the afternoon to work out their frustrations in bed.





	

“It's fine. He's fine.” She narrows her eyes at the ceiling and searches for the right words. “It's just – he doesn't seem to like it when I'm on top.”

“Eleanor.” A head of tousled dark curls emerges from the sheet and she is fixed with a look of kohl-rimmed disdain.

Used to be, Max always looked at her with adoration. Eleanor misses a lot of things about those days. Max. Her tavern. The cowed and muted masses of the street stepping aside as she walked. You know, the little things.

Max props her chin on top of Eleanor's thigh and says, “When you suggested we expel some of our frustrations in bed, I did not take your words as literal. I do not wish to hear about Governor Rogers while I go down on you.”

“Sorry,” Eleanor says, a little embarrassed. As accustomed as she is to having multiple partners in rotation, she is usually pretty good at keeping them separate in her head and bed.

She curls her legs so they are cradling Max. She says hopefully, “Give it another go?”

Max's mouth twists. “Maybe in a while.” She ducks under the legs and rolls, then sits up against the headboard beside Eleanor, bare chested and indifferent to the bright daylight pouring in through the open windows of the room.

That's another thing Eleanor finds herself a little wistful for. Back when Nassau was run by pirates, people were fairly free about nudity and sex. The return of English civilization has largely put an end to all that. Englishmen can only fuck under very specific conditions: nighttime, windows closed, and lights doused low.

And Eleanor knows she looks amazing in candlelight, but honestly it gets a little old.

She wriggles down the mattress so she can put her head in Max's lap. Max looks down at her, expression a little uncertain, so she presses a kiss to her stomach.

“If you want, you could complain about your other lovers,” she offers. After what Anne Bonny put them through for Rackham, she wouldn't mind hearing some complaints about her for once. Usually Max just sighs and looks sadly out windows, like that lanky taciturn nightmare was the greatest love of her life.

Max's hand starts to play with hair absently. Eleanor doesn't say anything about it, because it feels nice and she's pretty sure Max would stop if she did.

“I don't want to talk about Anne,” Max says softly. “That part of my life has come to an end. There is nothing to be gained by dwelling on it.”

Eleanor knows she should respect her wishes. She completely intends to do that. There are plenty of other topics they can use to while away the hours until Woodes returns from the countryside.

“It's just,” Eleanor says. “I didn't really take her as your type. She's very – violent. Can't have offered much in the way of _conversation_.”

The hand stops running through her hair, and Max angles a look down at her. “Oh, and I suppose Charles Vane was a paragon of culture and gentility behind closed doors?”

Behind closed doors, Charles Vane liked to be slapped and have his hair pulled. As far as Eleanor is concerned, that made up for some of his less refined qualities.

“That's different,” is what she says to Max.

“It is,” Max agrees. “Because neither Anne nor I would ever commit the types of acts you and Vane did against one another.”

Eleanor forgot how Max's even, pleasant voice could hide the occasional dagger. She bites her lip and turns her head so she is no longer looking up at the other woman.

After a moment, Max resumes petting her hair. And it is definitely _petting_ , like what one does to a pet put properly in its place.

And, because she's always been a little fucked up, Eleanor realizes then that she's wet. She becomes conscious of the smooth skin beneath her cheek, the delicate scent of Max a few inches away. She squeezes her thighs together.

“Eleanor,” Max says, voice unmistakably amused. “Are you finally in the mood again?”

The tone is not to be borne. She sits up and swings a leg over the other woman. She feels more at ease on top.

Max runs a hand up her thighs and hips, and then reaches up to lightly brush her nipples. Eleanor conceals a shiver by kissing her.

“Are you sure you don't wish to talk more about Governor Rogers?” Max asks when they break apart.

Her breathing is a little fast, but otherwise she still looks unbearably smug. Eleanor decides to rectify that by reaching down between her legs. Max's breathing hitches gratifyingly.

“I think I'm done talking for now,” Eleanor says, and bears the other woman down on the rumpled bed.

 


End file.
